


Lay Down

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg can't sleep, and so he makes a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Down

A policeman's insomnia is not the glorious thing the movies show it to be. A policeman's insomnia, in Greg's experience is lying in tangled sheets and shorts, vest rucked up uncomfortably around his stomach, scalp itching, pillow lumpy, staring at the ceiling in the dark, watching the illuminated numbers on his alarm clock tick down the hours until he has to get up again, not driving the rain-soaked streets of the city, musing on the plight of humanity, or standing at the window of a high rise flat, watching the lights twinkling on the eternal river.

And, okay, at least he has the view of the Thames from his flat. Converted lofts being so trendy, he was fortunate to find this one – or at least lucky to know a bloke who knew a bloke in the seized property office. And he does love to watch the lights on the river.

But now, he'd give just about anything to be able to fucking _sleep_.

His heart jumps at the slightest sound. The click of the refrigerator. The creak of a beam. A car accelerating in the road. If only he could shut his mind off – stop the whirligig of thoughts – all irrelevant ones, of course – Donovan's intense anger, Anderson's look of disappointment when he lets Sherlock in on the latest case, his DCI's scowl at Sherlock's latest escapade and her sharp, "don't think that because I'm a woman you can pull this shite with me, Lestrade." When Greg had offered to help with the negotiations over the new corporate organization in order to achieve a "higher customer-service to served ratio" – whatever that meant. He had just suggested that perhaps he could talk to Gregson and see what sort of deal they could work out. And then, and always then, Sherlock.

Greg grinds his palms into his eyes and groans.

 _Fucking Sherlock._

 _Or rather, anything but that._

He flips over on his stomach, which lasts only as long as it takes him to feel like he's strangling himself with the pillow. Back onto his back, getting his shorts tangled in his balls in the process.  
 _Oh, Christ._

Getting up, for some reason seems completely irrational.

 _If I get up, I'll have to do something. What? What should I do?_

The case notes were left at the Yard.

Laundry? Absolutely not. He's not starting that project at… what the fuck is the time anyway? 02.45.

Tea and crap telly? Ugh.

A video? Of what? Lethal Weapon IV, again?

A book?

Greg sighs. He's read everything in his meager collection at least four times. Except for the Jodi Piccoult that his sister left last week.

So… best option: lie in bed and count the hours until having to stumble out and make coffee.

Or.

Or…

His phone sits on the worktop in the kitchen. Deliberately placed there when he went to bed. It's set loudly enough to wake him if he needs it.

No. He's not going to call him.

Doesn't need him.

Doesn't require a nursemaid. Especially a nursemaid who may, for all he knows, be in Laos, or Tajikistan, or Iran, or Washington, DC, or Johannesburg, or anywhere, really. Not at the beck and call of a Detective Inspector with insomnia and a coffee habit.

He's not going to get up and get the phone.  
Greg's not picking up the phone and flipping through the contacts to come to his code name. Not the most foolproof of methods of secrecy, but enough to slow Sherlock down for a bit – maybe even long enough to get the phone back.

He's not sitting at the countertop, pressing the "call" button.

 _Yeah, it's me. Sorry. You're probably asleep._

 _Nah, I just woke up and…_

 _That is, I haven't fallen asleep yet._

 _No, I mean, you don't have to if you…_

 _Oh, you weren't asleep. Well, no, I don't. I'm just…_

 _No, I understand. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say…_

Yeah, that went well.

Greg heaves himself off of the stool and pads back to his bedroom. Tugs half heartedly at the sheets to straighten them. Kicks off his shorts and struggles out of his vest.

Warm sheets on cool skin.

He stares at the ceiling.

Listens to the refrigerator click on again.

Another car in the street.

A key in his lock.

Electricity shoots through him.

Footsteps – familiar ones – rustling of an overcoat. The click of dress shoes. A quiet grunt and then soft padding of feet.

A light flares in the bathroom and then is extinguished.

A figure pauses at the door.

"Gregory?"

Greg sits up, flicks on the light.

Dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, no tie, no waistcoat, trousers, barefoot. A glass of amber liquid in his hand. Fuller than normal for one man.

"Gregory?"

"Yeah, all right. What…"

"You called," Mycroft says simply.

"But…"

"You called," Mycroft repeats, moving to the bed. "Hold this. Take a drink."

Heat races through Greg as he obeys, taking a sip, savoring the taste and the fire of the alcohol.

Mycroft unbuttons his shirt, sheds his vest, slides from his trousers and y-fronts.

"Budge up," he says, the colloquialism unfamiliar from Mycroft's mouth, but no less dear, as he obliges, sliding over to make room for him and handing him the glass.

They trade sips in the dim light of the bedroom.

The silence no longer seems like it's trying to crawl into Greg's skin.

The refrigerator clicks on.

The clink of glass against the bedside table.

The contented sigh of Mycroft.  
The whisper of skin on skin.

The susurration of Mycroft's lips on his shoulder, neck, face.

The gentle groan as Greg parts his lips.

Breath, moans, whispered words of encouragement.

Sweat building between them. Hands, skin, teeth, tongues.

Mycroft's mouth is hot around Greg's cock, and he's begging, begging begging.

 _Don't stop, God, please, don'tdon'tdon'tdon'tdon't_

The sheets, already rumpled, pull away from the corners of the mattress as Greg grips them, knuckles white.

He whines as Mycroft pulls away and his cock twitches in the sudden cool of the room.

"Mycroft!"

Cool fingers, slick with lube massage him, pressing into him, stretching him.

"Are you ready?"

The burn of penetration – the stretching of muscle.

 _Mycroft, fuckfuckfuck oh fuck…_

Movement.

"Gregory… My Gregory."

Greg's cock slaps against his stomach, the slick fluid dripping obscenely.

"Mycroft, please…" Although the fact that he is still capable of speech…

Mycroft's hand is slick, warm from where he was clutching Greg's hip. Greg tilts his pelvis and Mycroft's groan is obscene as he thrusts in earnest, his hand around Greg's cock.

And Greg is falling, falling, falling.

Above him, Mycroft stiffens and stutters.

Sated, sticky, sweaty, he feels Mycroft pull slowly out, the runny mess of come and lubricant trickling against his arse.

Sated, sticky, sweaty, sleepy, he feels the bed shift and then hears water running.

Sated, and sleepy he feels the warm cloth on his stomach first, and then his arse.

Sated, sleepy, dreamy, he feels Mycroft's lips on his forehead. The stretching and untucking and tucking of sheets. He rolls as gentle hands guide him.

He's dreaming, cleaned, comfortable, sated, safe.

Warm hands rest on his back as he curls around his pillow. Soft breath tickles his ear.

A contented sigh.

In the morning he will awaken to the smell of coffee and his clothes, pressed and left out for him. If he's fortunate, Mycroft will be frowning at the paper, perhaps texting (if it's an emergency) stretched out on Greg's sofa in Greg's dressing gown.

If he's fortunate, Mycroft will glance up from the paper and smile, nodding to the worktop where the coffeepot works its magic, sending tendrils of fragrant steam throughout the flat.

But in the night, for the moment, he's the luckiest man on earth as sleep claims him for her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Bluey is once again my hero! Dedicated to the usual team of betae who are out and about and might enjoy this.


End file.
